


Modern Art

by spacestationtrustfund



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Art Ethics, F/F, Female Friendship, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Journalism, Lawyers, Not Tony Stark Friendly, Pepper Potts Is HBIC, Politics, The Stark Industries Employee Handbook, Wealth Accumulation, but it's all canon anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: Two days after Tony drunkenly hooked up with the Vanity Fair journalist, Pepper took her out for coffee.
Relationships: Christine Everhart/Pepper Potts
Comments: 36
Kudos: 221





	1. The First Interview

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not exactly kind to Tony Stark, but it also does not discuss anything that he hasn't done in one canon or another, so take that as you will. For more specific content warnings, see the work's end notes.

Two days after Tony drunkenly hooked up with the Vanity Fair journalist, Pepper took her out for coffee.

“If you’re wanting me to sign an NDA, I’ll tell you right off the bat it’s not going to happen,” the journalist in question said bluntly, sipping the Starbucks Pepper had paid for. Her nails were a muted pink, Pepper noticed. It matched her lipstick and scoop neck.

“No!” she said, surprised. “I would never expect—look, Ms. Everhart—”

“Christine.”

“All right. Christine.” Pepper and rubbed her thumb over her index finger a few times to ground herself. “I’m not trying to bribe you or pay you off. Stark Industries doesn’t do that sort of thing.”

Christine smiled broadly, leaning back in her chair like she was entirely at ease. “Really? Ms. Potts, as Tony Stark’s personal assistant and financial advisor, I’m certain you’re aware of the 2006 Hammer Industries merger that fell through when HI's CEO refused to capitulate to the frankly impractical demands your boss presented. Or the 70 million in revenue that disappeared from the books, presumably into Mr. Stark’s own pocket, despite how he enjoys denying it. Or the record-breaking profits from manufacturing weapons via sweatshop labor to sell to terrorist groups in MENA, not to mention dealings with US military, which—”

“ _Thank_ you,” Pepper said. “I’m aware of those rumors, yes—”

“Rumors, Ms. Potts? These are verifiable truths. Snopes has a whole category detailing Tony Stark’s lies when it comes to corporate profits. PolitiFact—”

Pepper resisted the urge to scream. “Yes. Thank you,” she repeated. “I am not personally responsible for what Mr. Stark does with his company, nor am I his primary spokesperson—”

“You certainly had a lot to say when you threw me out of his bedroom,” Christine said, tapping her short nails against the table. “Was that within the realm of Stark Industries’ professional conduct guidelines, Ms. Potts?”

Infuriating woman! Pepper thought. “I arranged this meeting so I could apologize,” she said, “both for Mr. Stark’s unprofessional behavior and my own personal conduct, which I realize was inappropriate and unacceptable. It is not my business what Mr. Stark does on his own time, nor is it my business what you do on yours, and I intend—”

“Potts, not that I don’t find this super amusing, but please just can it.”

Pepper blinked. “I— I beg your pardon?”

Christine sat forwards, leaning on her elbows; the movement put her cleavage front and center, and Pepper determinedly looked away. It really was a rather low-cut neckline. “Look, save it. I know what you’re going to say—but I’m not some mistress, or hooker, something like that. I don’t care what the _internet_ thinks I get up to in my free time, okay? That’s part of the job, being a journalist who happens to have tits, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

I’m trying _not_ to notice them, thank you very much, Pepper thought. “That’s—certainly admirable, but I don’t see what—”

“What I’m saying is, I don’t want the apology, or hush money, whatever it is you’ve been sent here to offer. I don’t care about that. I’m doing fine on my own.”

“That doesn’t excuse my conduct,” Pepper said primly, sitting up as straight as she could possibly manage. “It was unprofessional and unbecoming of a representative of Stark Industries, and for that I _will_ apologize.”

Christine scoffed. “On the contrary, Ms. Potts, I think that’s the most on-brand reaction you could have had. I’m just sorry I didn’t record it to look at whenever I feel like shit. I could break out the emergency freezer vodka, grab some Ben & Jerry’s, and watch the video of one of the most powerful female CEOs in the world telling me flat out, to my face, that she thought I was straight _trash._ ”

Pepper winced.

It hadn’t exactly been her most refined moment, but at least Everhart seemed to draw some semblance of amusement from it. And Tony himself had been over the moon, of course; he’d started talking about giving her an extravagant bonus just for what he deemed _some sharp-ass wit_ , and Pepper had had to talk him down from it in an excruciatingly embarrassing conversation that she didn’t exactly want to be reminded of at the moment.

Malibu incident or no Malibu incident, she wasn’t proud of the way she’d behaved to Everhart before.

“I’m not the CEO,” she said. “While I play a major role in the management of Stark Industries itself, my position is to serve as the CFO, COO, and CMO of the corporation. Mr. Stark, who prefers the title of ‘President’—hence why many people assume that I’m the CEO, since he erroneously refers to me by that title when questioned—has me managing everything from his financial record to overseeing the supervision of the daily internal workings of the company.”

“So you’re the CEO in everything but title and pay grade,” Christine said flatly.

Pepper pressed her lips together. “The details of my position in Stark Industries are of no relation to this conversation. As I was saying, I—”

“And as _I_ was saying, forget it.”

“And what, exactly, do you expect instead,” Pepper snapped, fed up, “taking you out for drinks at a little DUMBO bar with a dartboard and a keg stand? Like it or not, Ms. Everhart, I am acting in a formal context here, and I am _attempting_ to execute this conversation in a professional manner.”

Everhart looked surprised, but pleased. “As delightful as the idea of you going to some lowlife bar in your Dolce & Gabbana is—nice Loubs, by the way—no, actually, I meant it when I said I don’t want an apology.”

Pepper sat back, folding her arms. “All right,” she said. “And I suppose you have an idea as to what I can do instead?”

“Yes, actually,” Christine said. “I want to do an exposé on you.”

The first thing that popped out of Pepper’s mouth was, “Why?”

Christine looked taken aback. “What?”

“I meant,” Pepper said, recovering her composure, “why me? I don’t like to brag, Ms. Everhart, but I’ve been interviewed by every paper under the sun, and even The Sun. Quite frankly, I don’t see what you think you’re going to get that all of them failed to.”

“Well, if I told you _now_ , that’d spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?” Christine smiled. Despite seeming nonthreatening at first glance, she had a smile like a shark.

Pepper frowned. “Usually I like to have some idea of what I’m getting into before I agree to something. If you’ll forgive me for calling your journalistic integrity into question—”

“Actually, no. I won’t,” Christine said. “I wasn’t on the clock when I slept with Tony Stark, and my personal life has nothing to do with my work, which is at least more than can be said of you. If you’re going to turn this into another conversation slut-shaming me, then I’m going to walk out the door and take my notes straight to the DB—including that _charming_ retelling of our little interaction in Malibu.”

“Are you—are you _blackmailing_ me? Seriously? Do you even know the meaning of the word jurisprudence?”

Christine scoffed. “Fuck, no I’m not trying to blackmail you. Relax. No matter how much you want to _call my journalistic integrity into question_ —which is a bitch move, by the way—the fact remains that I want to do a spread on you, my financiers are paying for it, and I’ve got the time. It’d clear your guilty conscience and, if nothing else, give you an excuse to escape Stark’s company—not to mention his _corporation_ —for an hour three times this week and the next.”

Pepper sighed. “All right,” she relented.

“Great! I’ll email you anything you need to know in advance, but if we could meet—Thursday, maybe?”

“Hang on, let me look at my calendar,” Pepper said. “I have a million and one meetings scheduled each week—”

“That’s what happens when you’re the de facto CEO,” Christine said, “QED.”

“Yes. Thank you. I know you went to Brown. Graduated as valedictorian, I’m sure,” said Pepper, feeling unreasonably flustered as she scrolled through her planner.

She'd known, of course, that Everhart had earned her reputation of being quick-witted and sharp-tongued, but it was one thing to face off against someone wearing nothing but black boy shorts and one of Tony’s old shirts, as opposed to on more familiar ground. Pepper was used to having to be immaculately prepared, posed, poised, and likable in order to survive the shareholder meetings and other putative charity events that Tony loved to host on a whim. If she never had to arrange, choreograph, and cater for another wedding (that got called off only an hour before the ceremony, no less—an _hour_!), she'd die happy.

Christine’s mouth drew down at the corners. “Salutatorian, actually.”

Pepper looked up. “Thursday, ten o’clock in the morning?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you then,” Pepper said crisply, standing and smoothing down her skirt. “Good day, Ms. Everhart.”

Christine inclined her head in acknowledgment, looking horribly amused. “Good day, Ms. Potts,” she echoed.

//

Tony had left a heap of papers on her desk (completely forgoing the neat trays she’d pointedly set out, hoping to entice him into actually using the filing system she’d so meticulously cultivated) with a note telling her they needed to be sorted and dealt with by the end of the day. Pepper looked at the stack of papers, looked at the number of unread emails in her inbox, looked at the number of missed calls (the phone was ringing at the moment, to top it all off), kicked her shoes off, and very determinedly did not sigh.

There was work to be done. Sighing would get her nowhere.

After about an hour, she was elbow-deep in the guts of a filing cabinet searching for medical records from 2005 while one of Tony’s robots, which had wandered into the room with a bottle of sparkling water and a sandwich decorated with a note saying EAT ME! DRINK ME! —ALICE, rolled repeatedly into the wall, backed up, made a sad whirring noise, and rolled directly back into the wall again.

“Damn it,” Pepper snapped, extricating herself from the file cabinet.

She sat back down at her desk. She really should have followed up with Tony on that request for an assistant, she thought, glumly typing away at the draft of a message to one of the dissatisfied military customers who was demanding either a refund or a bigger weapon, whichever was more expensive and difficult to obtain. Tony had given her full permission to use his personal email account, as well as all the benefits and detriments that went along with having that sort of access, but she’d never used it and wasn’t about to do so. Even setting aside the fact that it was dishonest, she knew (and Tony probably did too) that if she got a look at the thousands upon thousands of unread messages waiting there, some dating back to when he was still an undergraduate, she would have a minor conniption. Fielding his phone calls was a difficult enough task; she didn’t want an additional responsibility thrown on top.

She was so engrossed in dealing with the paperwork that she didn’t notice the time, and when JARVIS said, “Ms. Potts, if I may remind you of your lunch appointment with Ms. Everhart,” Pepper startled badly, and smacked the side of her face into one of the robot’s metal appendages.

“Shit,” she hissed, pressing the heel of her palm against her stinging eye, “sorry—”

She wasn’t sure what she was even apologizing for, or to whom. The robot (hadn’t Tony called it “dummy” at one point?) had somehow managed to look almost baleful, in between its continued attempts to drive through the wall through sheer force of will. Pepper picked it up, none too gently, and set it back down in the hallway so it could roll away, making a cheerful beeping noise as it did so.

“JARVIS, get one of the cars ready, please,” Pepper said, grabbing her laptop bag and purse.

While scrambling to stuff her wallet, phone, chapstick, and so on back into her purse, as well as put her shoes back on, she almost had to laugh at the ridiculous spectacle she must be presenting. Virginia Potts might have been a disorganized collegiate undergrad (she never did finish her graduate’s), but _Pepper Potts_ was the financial advisor, PR rep, media manager, and personal assistant to, for, and of Tony Stark. She could handle this.

Eight minutes and one slightly twisted ankle (who would have known that running down three flights of stairs in heels would have been such a hassle? And of course Tony had picked today of all days to do something nefarious to the elevators), she slid ungraciously into the back seat of the car JARVIS had selected.

“Central Manhattan, please,” she said, and the driver—someone she didn’t recognize, surprisingly enough, although no doubt she had signed off on his résumé—nodded obligingly.

Traffic was horrendous as usual (god, but she hated living in New York sometimes), and by the time Pepper scrambled inelegantly out of the car and fast-walked towards the restaurant, she was nearly twenty minutes late. She could see Ms. Everhart sat near the wide glass window, checking something on her phone, and suppressed a wince.

“Hi,” she said, taking off her coat with the intention hanging it on the back of her chair, “I am _so_ sorry about—”

Everhart looked up, startled, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of Pepper standing there.

“Ms. Potts,” Everhart said, sounding aghast, “ _Pepper_ , listen to me—if he hit you—”

Pepper almost laughed in what would have been a decidedly unprofessional manner. Of fucking course, she thought. She hadn’t checked her own damn face in her compact before walking into the little café.

“No, he’s not— Tony would never,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s nothing so dramatic. I was just clumsy—beaned myself on one of his lab assistant contraptions. I just didn’t have time to put on concealer before I had to dash down here to meet you.”

She dropped into the chair across from Everhart with an apologetic smile. She hadn’t draped the coat over the back of the chair before sitting down, and it would be silly to stand up again to do it now, so she folded it as carefully as she could manage—sparing a moment of regret for the dry cleaning cost that she could inevitably accrue later—and tucked it on her lap.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to show up,” Everhart said. “Seriously, Ms. Potts, if you want an ice pack or something...”

“I’ll be fine,” Pepper said firmly. “Please. Let’s just get through with this.”

Christine huffed in a way that sounded almost like a laugh. “All right,” she said. There was a portable recorder on the table next to her mostly finished mug of coffee. “Did you want to get anything to drink?”

Pepper waved her hand. “I brought a chia smoothie,” she said, pulling the thermos out from her purse.

That made Christine’s eyebrows lift. “It’s—green,” she said.

“Spirulina,” Pepper explained. “It’s good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Christine fiddled with the portable recorder like she wasn’t sure what to do, which Pepper thought was funny; of course she knew what to do. “I already ate—the muffins are delicious today, especially the pumpkin ones, with the chocolate chips—but I wouldn’t mind postponing for a few more minutes if you wanted to grab a bite.”

“Tony is always telling me I need to eat more frequently,” Pepper said ruefully, “although I think that’s mostly because he doesn’t understand what a ketogenic diet is, and thinks I’m wasting away.”

Christine leaned forwards on her elbows. She was, at least, wearing a more modest top today. “So,” she said. “Let’s start with Tony Stark.”

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper sighed, taking another sip of her smoothie. “What do you want to know about him?”

“I want to know about _you_ ,” said Christine. Pepper, horribly, could feel her cheeks heating up. “But within the context of your connection to Tony Stark. How did you meet him? Why did he hire you? Why does he trust you so much?”

“Well,” Pepper said, “I’ve saved his life a few times, I suppose. I don’t know how much of Tony’s private business I should put out there—”

“Yes, it’s different when he does it to other people, isn’t it,” said Christine, demure.

“We met a few years after I graduated,” Pepper said. “It was at a gallery opening in Manhattan, some artsy boho chic textiles collection ‘with inspiration from Kate Moss and Mary-Kate Olsen,’ or something like that. Not my usual style, but I—”

“What is?”

Pepper blinked. “Sorry?”

“What _is_ your usual style,” Christine clarified, “if not—” She glanced down at the open notes app on her phone. “‘Artsy boho chic textiles.’”

“Minimalism,” Pepper said firmly. “Not—brutalism has always been too harsh for me, I was never fond of the postmodern aesthetic of sharp edges and dull colors. But I do love a good wide open space with plenty of light. And there’s this misconception that minimalism has to be all white, black, and gray, when really it’s only about the sparsity. I love the work of Keith Haring. Some of Piero Dorazio’s pieces were the topic for one of my thesis papers. I particularly love Rothko’s monochromatic works—I think his art can only really be appreciated when you see it in person; once you’ve really been able to stand there and absorb the... the massive _presence_ of the canvas, it’s impossibly different from seeing a little palm-sized two-dimensional replication on paper or on a computer screen. Yves Klein was also an incredible influence on my taste, as was Inagaki Tomoo’s cat pieces—oh, this is all probably more detail than you want, isn’t it?”

“Not really—I’m doing a profile on who Pepper Potts is, what Pepper Potts finds important, what Pepper Potts enjoys doing in her free time—”

Pepper laughed a little bit at that comment. “I’m sorry, but—I hardly _ever_ have any free time.”

“Do you wish you had more?”

“No,” said Pepper, “no. I love my job, and I love keeping things organized, and being in control of the situation. I love the feeling of satisfaction that comes after I’ve completed all the paperwork, even if the paperwork itself isn’t necessarily enjoyable. So no, I’m not dissatisfied with my situation.”

“Hm,” said Christine. “Well, let’s talk about your ambitions, then.”

Pepper sat up a little straighter in her chair and plastered on her best affable reporters-are-talking-to-me smile.

The interview was, more or less, what Pepper had expected: a retelling of her history with Stark Industries, the chronicle of her rise from a common secretarial understudy to the personal assistant of and advisor to one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world—the usual. Christine was surprisingly easy to talk to when she wasn’t mostly naked in Tony’s Malibu resort, Pepper realized, then felt angry at herself that she’d been thinking about it. When it came to first meetings, she would have rather liked to forget that one.

Pepper had a one o’clock appointment with some Stark Industries shareholder or other—she honestly didn’t remember who it was this time, but she could always check her calendar on the car before she got there, and she would be fine; her job required her to be fine, after all—and she’d expected Christine to give her the “thank you for your time” spiel at the end of their meeting, but instead, Christine said, “Next Tuesday?”

“I’m sorry?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to do a follow-up at Stark Tower,” Christine said. “Normally, for something like this, I’d bring a photog, but I also own an excellent camera and I can multitask, so there’s no reason to run up expenses, you know?”

“I suppose,” Pepper said, still a bit confused. “You’re wanting—photos, of Stark Tower?”

Christine actually laughed. “No, silly,” she said. “Of _you_! Something more intimate than the usual puffy success-story spreads and op eds you’ve usually had a penchant for. You know, it’d be more about delving into your private life, showing the world who Pepper Potts really is, behind the curtain, all that.”

“I’m not too keen on showing the world who Pepper Potts really is,” Pepper said. “At least, not if it involves bringing the reader demographic of Vanity Fair into my bedroom.”

“Maybe only your kitchen,” said Christine. “Tell me, Pepper Potts, do you make Tony Stark do the cooking, or do you succumb to patriarchal stereotyping?”

She was joking, but it still rubbed Pepper the wrong way. “Tony and I are not, nor have we ever been, romantically involved,” she snapped. “I _do_ wish people would put that frankly insipid rumor to rest.”

“Some people have wondered about your unusually quick rise to the top,” Christine said neutrally.

“Mr. Stark is a very strange person,” Pepper said, “and before you turn _that_ into a damning soundbite—that isn’t a critique of his character, merely a commentary on it. He doesn’t do things the way many other leading CEOs or corporate managements tend towards, a philosophy which extends to his internal advancement policies. Also,” she said, looking directly at Christine, “I’m good at my job. I didn’t need to sleep with my boss to get to where I am.”

Christine raised her eyebrows. “You know, I believe you,” she said, slowly. “I don’t think Tony Stark is capable about shutting up about the hot successful women he bangs, you included. I think, if the two of you _were_ doing it, or had done it at any point in the past, the world would know.”

“Right,” Pepper said, trying not to cringe at the thought. “Which is precisely why I despise that particular rumor.”

“Anyway, I’d still like to spend—let’s say an hour at Stark Tower, for the photos and a few final details to wrap everything up?”

“That would work for me. Tuesday, you said?”

Christine nodded, still smiling. “You can pick the time, this time around. Maybe that’ll discourage you from showing up late to your own party.”

Pepper winced. Great, she thought. “I know I already apologized, but—”

“So don’t bother doing it again. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I’m just teasing,” Christine said. “If you’re not comfortable, just tell me stop.”

“I— All right,” said Pepper, surprised. “Thank you.”


	2. The Second Interview

Pepper had been interviewed by Forbes as part of a “powerful women” piece at least three times before, but somehow she was still more nervous about inviting a girl home— about inviting a reporter to Stark Tower, that was to say.

Christine arrived promptly at the appointed time, possibly due to a passive-aggressive ulterior motive; she was probably expecting Pepper to comment on her punctuality.

Pepper didn’t.

“I brought you something,” Christine said, upon meeting Pepper in the lobby. Pepper had instructed JARVIS to show Ms. Everhart to the waiting room on the ground floor, please, while she finished the quarterly report Tony wanted her to knock out before the end of the week.

“Oh,” said Pepper, surprised. “Why?”

Christine actually laughed at that, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Because I like you, despite everything,” she said. “Because I wanted to get you a gift. I don’t know, why do people buy presents at all? Anyway, here it is.”

She deposited a small gift bag into Pepper’s hands. Pepper glanced inside; the bag contained a rectangular package wrapped in pale pink tissue paper.

“How about we move upstairs to my office,” Pepper suggested. A familiar ground would, she hoped, assuage some of the wrong-footedness she was feeling. Christine had a frustrating ability to tilt her entire world off-kilter.

On their way to the lobby elevator, Christine lingered in the hallway, looking at the art displayed there. Pepper was rather proud of the collection—she had furnished the hall with a moderate assortment of pre-revolutionary Russian constructivist pieces, including several original Tatlin works and one highly coveted Kandinsky. Further along the hall, closer to the elevators, Pepper had hung several more modern minimalist and pop art pieces, including—

Christine’s mouth dropped open. “Is that a genuine Yves Klein piece?”

“Yes,” Pepper said proudly. “Tony thought it was too boring and—basic, I suppose, when we first saw it displayed, but I love it, so he bought it for me. I actually studied art history as a minor while I was an undergrad, which not many people know.”

“I did know that, actually,” Christine said, recovering herself somewhat. “I’m guessing you’re in favor of privately owned works of art, then?”

Pepper frowned. “Well, yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Some people feel as though privately owned art pieces—the storage of historic pieces, that is—acts as a function of wealth accumulation instead of allowing the works to be publicly enjoyed,” Christine said lightly. “When privately owned, the art ceases to be publicly accessible—some people feel as though art should only be hanging in museums or other publicly accessible spaces, that is.”

“Well,” Pepper said, flustered. She didn’t really know how to respond to that.

Thankfully, Christine seemed to be content to let the subject drop. They spent the elevator ride up to Pepper’s floor in silence.

“So this is your office,” Christine said, stepping out onto the polished bamboo flooring. She craned her neck to look up at the ceiling, then glanced back down at Pepper. “I can’t say I don’t appreciate the natural lighting.”

“I was adamant that I wanted a place with large windows,” said Pepper.

Christine raised her eyebrows. “Well, you certainly got it, that’s for sure.”

“Yes,” Pepper agreed uncomfortably. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Christine was judging her somehow. “Well. Should we get the interview started?”

She led Christine into the room she usually used to entertain guests or, more frequently, clients. Christine sat obligingly on one of the steel-gray couches, legs crossed neatly at the knee, and took out her little voice recorder again.

Pepper sat primly on the parallel couch. She adjusted the cuffs of her blouse, feeling horribly self-conscious. She didn’t enjoy waiting for other people to start a conversation; she much preferred to take initiative.

“Go on,” Christine prompted, “open your present!”

“Oh!” Pepper had honestly forgotten about the little bag in her lap. She removed the tissue paper wrapping carefully, trying not to let it tear. “Oh,” she repeated, surprised. Christine’s gift was a small wood lacquered plaque reading PEPPER POTS, HBIC.

Christine said hesitantly, “I figured... because you’re CEO in everything but name, after all...”

“Thank you,” Pepper said, touched. “Thank you! I love it. I’ll put it on my desk.”

“That’s what it’s for,” Christine agreed. Her wide smile was back. It made her look incredibly stunning.

Pepper set the plaque off to the side. “All right,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“Well,” said Christine, holding up her little recorder, eyebrows raised, “I was hoping that we would start with a bit of a walking tour of your offices, get to know your assistants, a bit more information about the environment you work in, that sort of thing...”

“That works for me,” Pepper said. She stood when Christine did, brushing off her skirt in case any of the tissue paper had fallen on it. “Excuse me, I’ll just run drop this in my office and be right back.”

“I’ll come with you,” Christine said, sounding amused. “Since we’re doing a tour, and all?”

Pepper blinked. “Yes. Right,” she said. “Of course.”

“Lead on, Ms. Potts,” Christine said. Pepper straightened herself up, pushing back her shoulders, trying to get some composure back, and started towards her office.

After the tour of the work space, Christine wanted to get a brief profile on Pepper’s assistants, which caused a brief awkwardness when Pepper had to admit that she didn’t have any. Christine seemed honestly shocked that Pepper managed the entirety of the operation on her own, which made Pepper feel a little selfish squirming feeling of pride, although she was also surprised that Christine hadn’t known. Christine had been the one to disparage her for picking up the dry cleaning, after all; it seemed unlikely that she wouldn’t have known that Pepper’s job entailed, as she’d said before, anything and everything Tony wanted her to do.

The hour was almost up, and Christine seemed satisfied with the information she’d gathered during the tour of Pepper’s portion of the Tower, so Pepper led them back to her office-cum-lounge and asked JARVIS to order two Sauvignons, to which he obliged.

“I don’t know how you stand that,” Christine said, taking a sip of her wine. “Having a robot listening in on you all the time...”

“JARVIS is an AI,” Pepper said, feeling defensive. “He’s the same as having a Smart Phone, really, except much more complex and advanced. Tony designed him as a patterned neural network, so his precision will only improve with time—the more commands or requests he’s given, the quicker his response time, and so forth.”

“Still.” Christine took another drink. “Almost scared the pants off me, the first time the ceiling _spoke_ to me. Well.” She made a face, swirling her glass around. “Not that I was wearing pants at the time.”

Pepper could feel herself clenching her jaw, and forced herself to relax. She’d suffered enough wearing a night guard all the way through eleventh grade; she didn’t need to reignite the TMJ. She just didn’t like how casually Christine mentioned her liaison with Tony. It was unprofessional, Pepper argued with herself; she wasn’t slut-shaming Christine—she would _never_ shame another woman for her sexual proclivities—it was just that maybe she didn’t understand why Christine would have wanted to sleep with Tony. She knew, on an objective level, that Tony was handsome enough; his wealth was certainly a factor when it came to attracting partners; he could definitely command a great level of charisma when he wanted to. But Christine didn’t even seem to _like_ him, Pepper thought. Christine hadn’t said a single nice thing about Tony during the entire time Pepper had known her. Why would Christine have wanted to sleep with Tony when there were so many other people out there? Christine was absolutely gorgeous, and intelligent, and had a wonderful sense of humor—she didn’t need to sleep with people like Tony Stark to satisfy her ego, either. Pepper couldn’t parse it. She took another long drink of wine to avoid having to say anything in response.

They drank for a while in silence, then Christine abruptly stood up. “Honestly,” she said, and crossed over to the couch where Pepper was seated, and dropped down to sit next to her. Pepper could feel her eyes widening, but Christine didn’t seem to notice or mind; she stretched out her legs, kicking off her pumps, and wiggled her stocking-clad toes. “Oh,” she said. “That’s _so_ much better.”

“I try not to let my hair down during work hours,” Pepper said, too frostily.

Christine didn’t seem offended though, thankfully. She slid another couple of inches down the couch and looked up at Pepper through her eyelashes. “Shame. Not that the topknot isn’t working for you...”

“What?” Pepper blinked, dragging herself back from speculating about what brand of mascara Christine favored. Her lashes looked so soft.

Christine looked amused. “Nothing,” she said. She took another drink; there was a bit of nude lipstick smudged on the rim of the glass. “You’re all right, you know that? Everyone acts like you’re either Stark’s trophy girlfriend or a frigid bitch, but you’re all right.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Pepper, horrified.

“Nothing wrong with being a frigid bitch sometimes,” Christine said, taking another sip. “God knows I’ve had to be a bit of a bitch from time to time. It’s not like being a journalist is an _easy_ job—no one reads _papers_ anymore, and digital subscriptions are impossible, now that everyone’s got an ad-blocker—and to top it off, I’m a _chick_. So everyone wants to stick me with the puff pieces, the fashion columns, the interviews with celebs like fucking... Justin Bieber or Paris Hilton, you know? Not that I don’t enjoy interviews—I’m here, aren’t I?—but come _on_. I’m a fucking journalist, not a high school-paper editor, Jesus H. I want to do my fucking _job_.”

“I— I’m sorry,” Pepper said.

“It’s okay! It’s okay, really,” said Christine. “Well, it isn’t, but it’s not your fault. You’ve been perfectly lovely, honest. The industry loves to pit women against each other, hell, the _world_ does, so fuck it, I’m going to be friends with you. I _like_ you, Potts. You’re Head Bitch In Charge.”

“—Thank you,” said Pepper, taken aback. “I— like you, too.”

Christine grinned up at her. Some of her blonde hair had slipped out of its ponytail and onto Pepper’s thigh.

“You’re sweet,” she said. “Really, I mean it. Now shush, and drink your wine.”

It was easy enough for Pepper to oblige her.

“Everyone assumes... because my hair’s strawberry blonde...”

Christine scrunched her face up and twisted a strand of Pepper’s hair around her finger. “Bullshit! It’s red if it’s anything. Who told you it was strawberry blonde? That’s ridiculous. And strawberries are red, anyway.”

“I know!” Pepper wanted to giggle like a little girl. Probably she should have stopped drinking before, but she couldn’t help it; she felt so delightfully fuzzy. “You know why people call me _pepper?_ It’s because I would always correct them when they said I had strawberry blonde hair—I’d say it was red, just like a red pepper!”

Christine grinned. “I thought it was because of a salt and pepper shaker,” she said. “You know— I’m sure you’ve heard the jokes— ‘pepper pot’ and all that.”

Pepper groaned and dropped her head onto Christine’s shoulder. Christine laughed and patted her head gently.

“Tony got me some strawberries once,” she said. “As an apology for something he did, I don’t even remember. It was sweet of him, really.”

“Yeah?”

Christine didn’t seem uninterested, at least; Pepper felt a little bad, talking about Tony with someone like _her_. But she’d wanted an honest profile of Pepper’s day to day life, and Tony, like it or not, featured prominently.

“It was so stupid... I’m allergic!” she said. “And he was supposed to know that! It was in my medical file!”

“Did you eat them, though,” Christine said.

Pepper shook her head and sat back up. “No. No! Why would I do that?”

“Oh hell, you’re probably one of those lactose intolerant people who genuinely doesn’t eat anything with lactose in it, aren’t you?”

“I usually just drink almond milk,” Pepper admitted. “Although the Starbucks down the street from the Tower has hazelnut milk now, and I’m thinking of becoming a convert. Is that offensive? Don’t tell Tony, he hates when I drink Starbucks when there are perfectly functional coffee machines in the building.”

Christine laughed, which made Pepper feel tingly all over. Probably she’d had too much Sauvignon to drink. “Oh, _now_ we’re getting into the really juicy stuff— I’ll take this to the Daily Bugle if they’re the only ones who’ll print the scoop—better them than Info Wars, although not by much—”

“No,” Pepper protested, although she knew Christine was probably just joking.

“Jameson’s a nutcase who thinks Captain America would vote McCain and Palin,” Christine said dismissively. “I wouldn’t sell my story to him if it was the only way to earn revenue. Not that I’d expect _you_ to believe me—you called my _journalistic integrity_ into question, after all...”

“I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” Pepper argued.

Christine rolled her eyes. “All I had to do was flirt with you a little, and you brought me right into your base of operations, Potts. You really think I couldn’t get the information I wanted, if I were really going to sell you out to Jameson?”

“You think I’d just let some—some _tabloid_ reporter into my home and tell her every dirty little secret I keep hidden from the papers just because she was _nice_ to me?”

“First of all,” Christine said, “I don’t do tabloids. Vanity Fair actually has a history of highly respectable—”

“Yeah, I know, and Teen Vogue is talking about social justice now! What’s next, _People_ magazine starts criticizing wealth disparity?”

“I’d buy a subscription,” Christine said, deadpan.

Pepper covered her eyes with her hands and groaned.

“You make it out to be such a bad thing,” said Christine, “when that’s what journalism is all _about._ Do you actually know anything about journalistic integrity, or do you associate all reporters with those paparazzi who harassed Britney Spears until she had a public breakdown?”

“I know _enough_ ,” Pepper argued.

“I can see that. Which is why _you’re_ accusing _me_ of working for a tabloid,” Christine said. She sounded disgusted, now. “Did your _boss_ , the legendary billionaire war profiteer Tony Stark, ever tell you how we met, by the way? The way he tells it, I bet you honestly believed I flung myself at him begging to suck him off right there in the middle of the street. No mention of why I was trying to get a soundbite, though, I bet.”

“He— didn’t exactly tell me all the details,” Pepper said stiffly.

Christine thinned her lips until they were almost invisible. “As Stark Industries’ most notorious PR fixer-upper, I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories about the women he’s fucked and discarded. You were in Malibu then, of course. You know what he told me? He said his pop-pop used to say that peace meant having a bigger stick than the other guy. You know what I said to that?”

Pepper shook her head.

“I said, ‘big words coming from the one selling all the sticks.’” Christine sat back, viciously triumphant. She snapped her briefcase shut and stood up. “Well. This has certainly been illuminating. Good day, Ms. Potts.”

For a moment, Pepper just watched her walk towards the door. Then her mouth caught up with her brain and she blurted out, “Wait! Christine—”

Christine turned around, one hand on her hip. “What?”

“I didn’t mean—” Pepper stopped. “Look,” she tried, in her best mollifying tone, the same one she used when Tony was too drunk to stand, or when he was trying to convince her to expand the budget for an electrothermal waterslide from one of the bedrooms to the main dining hall. “We got off to a bad start. We’re both having rough days. But I still have almost...” She glanced down at her phone. “Half an hour before I need to be in the board room for my next meeting, and that’s half an hour to kill on your end as well. Why not use it to do something more useful, and finish the interview?”

“And why should I do that,” Christine said.

Pepper took a deep breath. “Because you haven’t asked me about SHIELD,” she said, in a rush.

That was enough to get Christine to pause.

“I do appreciate that you haven’t asked about my relationship to SHIELD,” Pepper said. “Everyone assumes that just because Tony’s father was part of their little club, that must mean I have access to insider information or something like that.”

Christine scoffed. “I don’t actually care about SHIELD, or Howard Stark, or any of it,” she said. “I’ve never been a fan of superhero worship culture. I read Superman and Batman comics growing up, but all that ultra-masculine machismo was never my style. I prefer the heroes who don’t get the credit—one of my friends, Jen, she’s an attorney—she volunteers at soup kitchens and Goodwill stores every weekend. She started when she was eleven. She’s the type of hero I think this world needs. People who help others for no other reason than people need help, and they can fulfill that need.”

“I suppose this would be a bad time to mention Stark Industries’ many generous charitable donations,” Pepper said ruefully.

“It would also be a bad time to mention Stark Industries’ many generous government subsidies in the form of tax breaks,” Christine said. She smiled, just as prettily as before, but there was a harder tempered edge to it. “Well, you’ve convinced me, Ms. Potts. Let’s get the damn thing over with.”

After that interview, during which Pepper realized with a sinking feeling that the weird tingly feeling was less discomfort and more nerves—she really _did_ want Christine to like her—they made plans for a final meeting to, as Christine explained it, _go over some details_ and, as Pepper explained it, _make sure everything was agreeable to everyone involved_. And then, before leaving, Christine pulled Pepper aside in the ground floor lobby and told her, very seriously, that if she ever wanted to sue Stark Industries for workplace harassment, Christine would be behind her all the way.

“Here,” Christine pressing a business card into Pepper’s hand and closing her fingers around it, while Pepper was still trying to process what Christine had said. The sharp corners of the card bit into her palm. “Best lawyer in Manhattan, not to mention a personal friend of mine.”

“I— Thank you,” Pepper said, taken aback. She still felt incredibly flustered, and couldn’t figure out why. It was infuriating. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, but thank you.”

Christine’s expression was deadly serious. “Pepper,” she said, taking Pepper’s hand in both of hers, so that all three hands were wrapped around the business card. Christine’s short nails scraped dully over her skin, and Pepper shivered, involuntary. “I know it’s not easy. Believe me, I know! My situation wasn’t exactly similar, to be honest, but I’ve been in similar... _er_ situations before. More similar? Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I believe you, and I think this is something you should do. Not just for yourself, but for every woman like you.”

“I— I don’t know what you mean,” Pepper said.

That earned her a confused look. Christine was still holding her hands, her thumb brushing unconsciously over the back of one of Pepper’s hands, which did nothing to calm her nerves.

“Pepper,” Christine said. “I’m talking about how Tony Stark has been sexually harassing you.”

Pepper pulled her hands away reflexively out of pure shock. “What are you _talking_ about? Tony’s not— Tony doesn’t—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” said Christine gently. “Pepper, listen to me. I don’t regret sleeping with him—it was fun, it was a stupid spur of the moment decision, and it was a hilarious notch on the bedpost, to tell the truth. Was it ethical of him to hit on me while I was trying to do my job?”

“No!” Pepper said, affronted. “Of course not! Christine, I’m sorry that that ever happened to you, and I—”

“Shush,” Christine said. “Thanks. I know. You’re an angel. Let me finish what I’m trying to say. It was wrong of him to behave that way, no matter how much I was okay with it, you see? The same applies to you. Even if you’re dating him—”

“Which I’m _not_.”

“—it’s not okay for him to do things like that without your consent, and I know it’s without your consent, because you were just complaining about how he does things like that even after you’ve told him no.”

Pepper blinked. “Well, yes, but that’s just—that’s just how Tony is as a person,” she said. “He’s a genius—”

“Bull _shit_ ,” said Christine. “I don’t care how smart he is. I don’t care if it’s Stephen fucking Hawking grabbing my ass, that doesn’t make it okay.”

The poor business card was crumpled in her hand; Pepper unclenched her fingers and smoothed out the little card as best she could. _Bernie Rosenthal, Attorney-At-Law_ , the card read, with a phone number and address in downtown Manhattan.

“She’s good,” Christine said, catching Pepper’s line of sight. “She knows her stuff, I promise.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Pepper said.

Probably she shouldn’t have made it sound like she was worried about something. She sighed, tucking the business card into the pocket of her pencil skirt, then smoothing her skirt and looking back up at Christine.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Thank you for your concern. I really do have another meeting, but—”

“Right, of course. No problem,” Christine said. Her hands were hanging awkwardly at her sides, like she didn’t quite know what to do with them; she looked almost as nervous as Pepper still felt. “I’ll see you on Thursday morning then?”

Pepper nodded, feeling numb. “Thursday morning.”

“Don’t be late,” Christine teased, then, before Pepper could fully process what was happening, she stepped in quickly and hugged Pepper, squeezing her tightly. “Thanks,” Christine said, muffled into Pepper’s shoulder, her breath warm on Pepper’s neck.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pepper said, bewildered. Her skin was tingling uncontrollably, and she didn’t know where to put her hands.

Christine laughed, low in her chest, and Pepper, horribly, felt herself starting to blush, cheeks hot. “For the interview, silly,” she said. She stepped back half a step, releasing Pepper from the hug, then darted in and kissed her on the cheek. Pepper turned her head in surprise halfway through the movement, and the kiss landed at the corner of her mouth, close enough for her to smell the sweet waxy lipstick Christine was wearing, and close enough for her entire body to light up like a fireworks display as she stood there, shocked.

Before Pepper could think of anything to do in response to _that_ , Christine was already out the door and making her way across the concrete.

Pepper watched her vague silhouette through the rippled glass and thought, What the hell was that about?

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Workplace sexual harassment is discussed. A character does not believe she's been sexually harassed, and feels "pressured" to agree, even though she doesn't see it. She does later understand that what happened to her was sexual harassment, and that there was an unsafe power dynamic (her boss, a very wealthy and publicly admired man, making inappropriate sexual advances towards her). The sexual harassment included inappropriate questions and jokes of a sexual nature, as well as repeated groping. No actual sexual assault or rape has taken place.


End file.
